


Failing Grade

by bible



Category: JUDGE EYES: 死神の遺言 | Judgment, 龍が如く | Ryuu ga Gotoku | Yakuza (Video Games)
Genre: Blow Jobs in a Car, Exhibitionism, Face-Fucking, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, No Spoilers, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Masturbation, Rough Oral Sex, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 09:47:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20544131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bible/pseuds/bible
Summary: “Now, Ta-Bo,” Hamura’s voice clicks up in a mocking coo, “If I were to give you what you want, it’s hardly a punishment, is it? I’m not against beating the shit out of you, but since you’re asking for it, that kind of defeats the purpose on my end. I’m not your errand boy.”Yagami frowns, and turns away to stare at the street, at the signs floating above like mirages of neon clouds, advertising host clubs and bars and other places to escape the pain of a lost paycheck or a failed exam.“So, what? You pick me up and we go get a beer together? You wanna go get buddy-buddy massages at that sauna you like, or some shit?” Yagami can’t help but let the vitriol leak into his voice. He doesn’t want to be denied ofanythingright now.“Take off your jacket.”





	Failing Grade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carriejack03](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carriejack03/gifts).

> warning for mildly dubious consent, but yagami's ultimately into it

Kamurocho, Tokyo – 2008

There’s no good reason to be staring at Hamura’s number on the glowing square of his flip phone. Crouched outside of the building where his night classes are held—just a small classroom on the second floor, sandwiched between a café and a loan shaking office—Yagami throws an arm over his knees. He’s squatting, making himself small, watching a feral cat prance by. When he reaches out to pet it, the grey creature quickly scurries behind a vending machine, where canned tea and juice labels are backed by the LED inside, spilling out a rainbow onto the face of a tired student buying herself more caffeine.

He doesn’t press ‘call’ yet.

If he had the money, he’d get drunk instead of resort to this. But all he has to his name is an expired debit card, a receipt for his utility payments, and the food that Matsugane and Kaito share at the office.

He’s failed his final exam. The results have been handed back, and he clutches the paper, marked throughout with plain, inoffensive, black ink. Indicating, at every point, where he was incorrect. Black ink. Couldn’t it have been red? Couldn’t it have been dire and terrifying? Yagami doesn’t even feel vindicated in his failure, doesn’t feel self-loathing. He’s just drained. He has been labeled incompetent, not with scorn, or shock, but as though it’s _fact_.

Dropping his head between his knees, he slides off his heels and sits with his back pressed to the grime of the brick wall behind him. He crumples the exam results in his hand and shoves the ball of paper into the pocket of his shiny sukajan jacket. His fingers are quickly becoming numb, the semester ending in that cheery time right before the holidays. The start of what should be a relaxing winter break.

With his eyelids squeezed shut, as if he’s anticipating a slap, huddled in on himself, he presses the call button and brings the phone to his ear.

It rings for a moment.

He doesn’t want to tell Kaito about it, who’ll be frenetic _for_ him, who’ll tell Yagami he did nothing wrong, who will probably break into the night class and choke-slam his professor, wrestler style. And he doesn’t want to tell Matsugane, who will lecture him wisely and provide him with the money and a secondary opportunity to right his wrongs. Yagami never seems to run out of chances with Matsugane. He’s beginning to feel spoilt.

What a waste he is.

He wants to be told that.

He wants to be told what he knows, now; that he’s unintelligent, pathetic, a slacker. That he could have studied more. That he’s a waste of the Matsugane Family’s money, that the yakuza that are risking lifetimes in prison are funding his stupidly pragmatic law “degree.” And he can’t even get that right.

He wants punishment.

The ringing halts abruptly.

“Ta-Bo,” Hamura drawls, voice pretty but sleazy. He’s always been such an _aristocratic_ gangster. An involuntary shiver wracks Yagami’s hunched frame. He doesn’t know if it’s from fear, or attraction, or the cold. He curls his fingers around his modest, out-of-date cellphone, “Funny hearing from you.”

It’s true. In the ten years since Yagami’s come to Kamurocho, the majority of them have been spent in the Matsugane Family as a surrogate son. He’s so familiar with Hamura in person, but he thinks he’s called him maybe twice in his life. If he’s being generous. He _always_ goes to Kaito first, Matsugane second—even lower-level punks are preferable over the phone. It isn’t that he’s _threatened_ by Hamura. The guy’s just unpleasant to be around. The way a non-lethal snake is.

But, although he doesn’t believe Hamura has any _reason_ to hurt him, he knows that he’s capable of doing so. The idea of being hurt with the disdainful intention of someone that isn’t some drunken, easily aggravated street punk is alluring. Especially when he feels this low.

“Are you busy?”

A stretch of silence. Then, he can hear Hamura shift over something that sounds like cloth. He can imagine him sitting up on a couch, or in bed or something.

That means he isn’t.

“Why?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“About what?” he sounds suspicious. Surely, that’s not a cursory, casual sentence to hear when you’re a career criminal. Yagami juts his tongue between his teeth, reminding himself of the predictability of becoming a defense attorney while cozying up with the yakuza. He’s sure people who know both of these things about him roll their eyes and scoff, saying he’s surely just becoming a lawyer to protect the pockets he has his hands in.

It isn’t true. He squeezes his knees together in shame at his own pliability in the hands of the yakuza. _Fuck_.

“I failed my exam.”

Hamura’s quiet for a moment. Then he lets out a soft laugh, wry and confused.

“Okay? Why should I give a shit?”

“I feel really shit about it, Hamura-san. I thought we could get drinks or something.” God, what is he _doing_?

The sound of Hamura’s teeth clicking together, like a tin canteen set upon a table, and then, without humor, he drawls, “Is this a joke.”

“No. I don’t want to see anyone who likes me when I’m like this. I just—want the company.”

He can picture the grin on the motherfucker’s mouth when he smiles and says, “You should be honest with me, Ta-Bo.”

“I am. I just… I want the company.” His cheeks are burning. He feels like he’s giving a public presentation in the nude. (A dream he’s had way too many times; standing in the court room with his dick out.)

“Well, I’m not here to dish out _company_. We aren’t buddies, so—”

“Wait. _Wait_.”

Yagami chews his lip, peeling off worried-white dead skin with his teeth, and then says, in a rush, “Okay. You’re right. Should be honest if I wanna be a lawyer, right? Not that I’ll be one at this rate. So, listen—I just… I want to be punished.”

Hamura is silent and for a second he feels that immediate, humiliating regret of making a dire mistake. But it burns good, the way it _should_ have when he was handed his exam results. Shame is so much more visceral, so much more _intense_ than disappointment. Less depressing, too, somehow.

“Alright. I’ll pick you up.”

“Okay,” Yagami gives him his coordinates, body unwinding as his legs stretch out in front of him, as though he’s drunk and collapsed in the middle of the street. “But, Hamura-san—I don’t want to go to the office. I just—”

“Yeah, yeah. We won’t. I’ll be there soon, Ta-Bo.”

“Okay.”

He closes his phone and sits in the dim light of the vending machine, feeling both self-loathing and anticipatory. He’s failed but he’s finished. Fired, but you have a date. Lost a finger from yubitsume, but you’re destined to be patriarch.

The taste in the back of his throat is as bitter as the cold.

*

“Do you have to make yourself look so pitiful?” sighs Hamura whenever Yagami opens the passenger side door of his expensive, wine-colored sports car. He doesn’t feel right, sitting in something so luxurious and indicative of money, of class, whenever he’s moping in his torn jeans and his thrifted sukajan jacket from the seventies. Even his _hair_ seems sad, limp and unstyled, his usual curls wilted from the cold, wet December.

Hamura, for his part, looks as well put-together as always.

Black jade suit and those sharp, arctic eyes.

“I’m pretty pitiful right now.”

“It’s just an exam, Ta-Bo. Who gives a shit?”

Yagami side-eyes him. He wasn’t expecting him to give him the benefit of the doubt. In fact, that was the whole _point_, wasn’t it?

“You wouldn’t get it,” Yagami knows it’s a shitty, stupid thing to say, but he wants the desired outcome. _Rile him up a little_, he reminds himself, “You didn’t _go_ to college-level classes.”

Hamura barks a laugh and reaches over to pat his cheek, roughly, “Nice try.”

Yagami slouches in the passenger’s seat, mumbling, “I feel stupid. I guess it’s because I am.”

“Mmh. I suppose it’s a pretty accurate assessment of your knowledge of the law, yes? Can’t refute that.”

Yagami burns—or maybe he glows—in the shame. He presses his knees together again, sucks his lip into his mouth. It tastes like iron. “I feel like I wasted your money. You know, Matsugane’s putting me through school with the cash the family makes.”

Hamura’s jaw tightens, and his skin flashes with striped yellow, over and over, as they pass beneath the streetlights. It gives Yagami the impression of a pulse inside a lantern, or something. “Don’t remind me. Don’t know what the fuck he sees in you, to be throwing cash at you like he does. Maybe I should show him your test results.”

“He’d just pay for another class.”

A scoff, and Hamura’s milky eyes slide over to slant hatefully in Yagami’s direction. Yagami is fully facing him, cheek pressed against the head rest, trying his best to look alluring and easy to abuse. “I’m always without consequence. So, like, beat it into me.”

“And that’s why you called me up?”

“Yeah,” Yagami admits. He can feel his skin throbbing. He can never explain this strange, innate need to be hurt, to be fought. Oftentimes, it stems from a place of competition, a need to get rid of his anger. The same reason hurt people take up kickboxing, to dispose themselves of that destructive energy that is fury. But now, he supposes it has something to do with indignity. He isn’t about to kick the hornet’s nest of whatever is causing this overt masochism, though. He just wants it.

“Now, Ta-Bo,” Hamura’s voice clicks up in a mocking coo, “If I were to give you what you want, it’s hardly a punishment, is it? I’m not against beating the shit out of you, but since you’re asking for it, that kind of defeats the purpose on my end. I’m not your errand boy.”

Yagami frowns, and turns away to stare at the street, at the signs floating above like mirages of neon clouds, advertising host clubs and bars and other places to escape the pain of a lost paycheck or a failed exam.

“So, what? You pick me up and we go get a beer together? You wanna go get buddy-buddy massages at that sauna you like, or some shit?” Yagami can’t help but let the vitriol leak into his voice. He doesn’t want to be denied of _anything_ right now.

“Take off your jacket.”

Yagami shoots him a look.

“Now.”

Unzipping the teeth of the front of his jacket, he shucks the reflective, deep blue down his arms, and tosses it into the footwell. If he’s to believe the sewn font on the back, it’s from Kyoto—a place he’s never been. Just picked it up at Ebisu, before he could buy himself lawyer wear and neat, crisp button-ups. It’s always had a soft spot in his heart, though, and on cold, wet days like this, he still tends to wear it.

“Good boy. Now take off your shirt.”

“_What_?” Yagami’s voice is high, incredulous. Cracks a little on the vowel, and Hamura’s sharp teeth glint when he laughs.

“Kaito told us you jack off a lot.”

“He _what_?!”

“When we asked why you don’t just live with him. That’s what he said.”

Yagami’s face is on fire. Forget his own punishment; Kaito’s about to get a _lesson_ in it. So what if he does? It’s not the business of a yakuza clan!

“Isn’t that something,” Hamura drawls, somehow sounding cruel despite the absurdity of the topic of conversation, “If that’s true—and I’m sure it is—why don’t you go ahead and sate yourself? I always feel better after I jack off, personally.”

“I—”

“Don’t be a pussy.”

“I—don’t want to think of _you_ jacking off! And I don’t want to jack off in front of you, either.”

“You asked for punishment. Is a punishment a punishment if you get to delineate the conditions?”

Yagami knows he’s right, but; this shit’s so out of left field. He never suspected Hamura of having homosexual proclivities, despite the fact that—in hindsight—he’s never seen him with a woman. Maybe it has nothing to do with homosexuality, though. Maybe nudity is just in Hamura’s brand of degradation tactics. He’ll have to file that away for himself, just in case…

Yagami shifts, bites his bottom lip, and before he can respond, there’s a harsh, stinging smack against the back of his head. He feels like his skull is rattling against his brain. His teeth tear through his lip, but he doesn’t bleed. He’s just ripped off more dead skin.

He lets out an involuntary moan. It’s not that he’s a fan of getting backhanded. But the pain he’s being dished out is _deserved_, and that makes it sweeter.

And when, Hamura repeats in a dangerous, commanding voice, the kind he hears from outside the office when he’s alone with a traitor or an enemy yakuza, to take off his shirt, Yagami does. Hooks the thin, white cotton up over his torso and lets it drape atop the jacket.

He sits back.

“That’s good.”

The air in the car is chilly despite the heaters, and the dark nipples on Yagami’s thin—later to be developed—chest harden. Despite the wintertime, he’s pretty sun-kissed. He crosses his arms.

“Play with your tits.”

“Don’t—” Yagami swallows, his spit feeling too warm, too dense and syrupy, “Don’t say that.”

“Do it, Ta-Bo,” he snarls. Yagami’s barely kept focus on where they’re driving, but he realizes they’re passing through the Hotel District. Someone he knows could easily see them. Luckily, Hamura turns on his signal at the place where Kamurocho ends and begins to fade into the larger metropolitan district of Shinjuku.

That makes it easier. Dims the licking hot swoops of shame in his stomach as he cups his own, flat, nothing-there chest.

“That’s good…” Hamura’s voice has turned husky, self-satisfied.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he kind of likes it. Despite the humiliation, despite the fact that touching his own bland, unsensitive sternum isn’t really doing anything for him, the fact that he’s doing something potentially upsetting for the pleasure of a sadist who wants to see him squirm—it’s what he needs right now.

So he just pinches his nipples, the way he sees girls do in porn, looks shyly at Hamura for approval with those wide eyes.

But Hamura seems more focused on the road, barely giving him a sideward glance, so Yagami takes his own initiative, ups the ante. (Not that he wants the captain to crash the car or anything, he just wants the attention.) Whenever Hamura merges onto a highway—not too crowded, not at this time of night, even on the weekend—he unzips his jeans and shucks them down his thighs.

Hamura’s jaw tightens and he shoots him a hateful glare, icepick and steel reflected in the rearview mirror.

“Did I tell you to take off your pants?”

“I’m just using deductive reasoning to predict the next step,” Yagami quips, cupping over a growing bulge that’s dampening a spot in his boxers. The patch shines wetly in the brake light of a particularly slow driver ahead of them.

“Reason you failed your exam, dumbass, is that you can’t follow orders.”

Yagami rolls his eyes but he can feel his toes curl in his dusty sneakers at the insult. He begins to push them off without unlacing them.

“You’re quite an eager slut, huh? Who’d have guessed it.”

Yagami works his pants down. He can feel gooseflesh beginning to track over his small thighs.

Watches Hamura.

Has he always been this handsome? A strong jawline, that sleek hair, the cruel but beautiful grey eyes, the thin but powerful nose, almost Grecian—

“Touch yourself, Yagami. Go on and show off, the way you show off for Kaito,” he snickers.

If someone in the slowing traffic were to look, they could certainly see him in the nude, groping himself over his briefs, his chest perky and heaving, his face red. Not a lawyer, not even a _student_—just a slut. Yagami hesitates, looking out the window at a passing Honda, but the driver doesn’t seem interested. His hand hovers over his bulge as he thinks about whether or not the windows are tinted. Surely, a man like Hamura—

“Hey! What did I just fucking say? _Touch_ yourself, like the fucking dirty _whore_ that you are!” Hamura barks. Despite the malice of the order, the word choice has Yagami practically humping the wet cotton of his briefs. He peels them off, and that chubbed-up candy dick slaps against his stomach with the release.

He is a whore, isn’t he?

His cock is so sensitive already, throbbing in time with his heartbeat which isn’t just pumped up by arousal, but also fear. He keeps darting his eyes to look out the window, tries to sink lower to hide how he’s cupping his cock, jerking it in short, unsure thrusts of his hand. It’s so _wet_—he can hear the soft slicking noises over the sound of the tires on the road.

Pulling his hand away, he spits in his palm with that thick saliva that’s clotted with humiliation and anxiety and then returns it to his cock. Strokes the underside of it lazily, watches himself twitch in his hand, coating himself with a slippery layer of wetness. He thumbs at the foreskin, peeling it back to watch the glistening head expose itself. He laps over his thumb, then smooths small circles over his slit, the way he does when he’s feeling particularly self-pampering.

All the while, Hamura doesn’t seem fazed by these horribly attractive ministrations, eyes on the road with a strange indifference that Yagami isn’t used to. Although he doesn't want to admit it to himself, just being shown off like this isn’t enough for him anymore.

He opens his mouth to demand _something_—he’s not sure what—but Hamura speaks first.

“Put your feet up on the dashboard.”

Yagami, face burning, complies.

After all, shouldn’t he learn to follow instructions?

The bottom of his foot lands over a particularly warm vent and he relaxes. The leather interior is beginning to heat up under his body, and he’s feeling swaddled from the cold.

“Suck your finger.”

Yagami can already infer where this is going, and he hesitates. “Not without lube.”

“That wasn’t a suggestion, Ta-Bo,” Hamura snarls, reaching over and grabbing Yagami’s cock. He yelps, the squeeze Hamura gives hinting on the side of painful, but his cock doesn’t seem to care that the grab is unwarranted; it pumps out a heavy stream of precum, dripping down his shaft and over Hamura’s tightly wound fingers like honey.

“Ah, how cute…” he squeezes harder and Yagami hisses through his teeth. “Your little cock likes playing rough, huh?”

“Eyes on the road,” Yagami manages to grit out, batting Hamura’s hand away. But his voice comes out weak, strangled.

He gives him a brutal shake, snickering, before he lets him go. They’ve hardly drifted out of the lane despite the distraction, and Yagami’s mildly impressed by Hamura’s ability to multitask.

Yagami sinks a long middle finger between his plush lips, lubricating it the best he can, his tongue wrapping around it. Whatever stiffness was lingering in his hand disappears. Of course, he’d prefer lube, but he’s not a stranger to assplay, so it could be worse. Not that Hamura needs to know that.

A film of sweat has begun to sit over his skin, and his hand travels between his legs, brushing delicately over his erection. As gently as he can, he rubs over his puckered hole with the pad of his middle finger, feeling the tight wrinkles there move, feeling himself relax. His eyes close as he tries to forget where he is, tries to ignore the cloying scent of Hamura nearby, smelling of something metallic and smoky. Tries to ignore the sound of passing cars on the highway, the roll of tires, the silence of a turned-off radio. He can hear his own soft whimpers as he pushes in his finger, feels the warmth of his insides around his hand. He licks his own lips which are still dry, parted. His brows are worked together in concentration. It makes a pretty picture for whoever drives by and decides to take a look at this ecstasy-bound student in the throes of his own masturbatory pleasure, head tossed back on the chair, neck bared and Adam’s apple bobbing.

_ Can’t even help myself_, he thinks, _I just need it—I’m just a slut_.

“Isn’t that sweet,” Hamura says without affection, “Rub your cock, Yagami. Rub it like it’s a clit.”

The words make his face burn, and he bites down on his tongue as his other hand that isn’t currently working his twitching ass open goes to his dick. He begins to pet over himself, his cock pulsing and dripping and ready to come. The steady stimulus of his finger inside himself makes him even more oversensitive.

“That’s it. Good girl,” Hamura says, voice low and husky now, the breath of a dog, “Feels good, doesn’t it? Showing off for your yakuza buddy? Some lawyer you’re trying to be. No wonder you failed. Stupid, easy to manipulate, but you’re pretty cute, you know? Learn to follow directions like this more often, and maybe a professor will take mercy on you. Of course, if that doesn’t work, you can just bribe ‘em with this pretty asshole. Bend over for an A.”

That does it. Yagami’s cumming with a throat-tight cry that he’ll later deny making, splattering his own chest with droplets of hot semen. He’s glad he’s angled himself so that he won’t get it on the leather. He doesn’t want to imagine Hamura’s rage if he were to make a mess of the seats. The interior probably costs more than his class did. That thought is fleeting, because his whole body is trembling, wracked with shivers like he’s just been hit with lightning. His own hole is clenched up like a vice around his hand, and he thinks he must have brushed his prostate. He pulls out and sighs, body clenching up around empty air.

For a while, he sits there, worked up and feverish, letting out long, unrelenting little whines as he comes down from his high. His legs fall from the dashboard.

“Thank you, Hamura… Th-thank you—?!” he pants, but he’s cut off when he’s seized by his mop of hair and pulled over the divider. His eyes widen. Sometime between sinking his finger into himself and closing his eyes, Hamura must have wrested his cock from the confines of his suit. It’s _huge_. No wonder Hamura has the ego he does. Dark and mapped over with stark veins, a mess of pubes at the base, a leaking head that sits half-way out of his foreskin. Yagami tries pulling away from where he’s being ostentatiously tugged towards his crotch. His scent is fucking _opulent_. Tobacco and vanilla, sweet and heady. It’s intoxicating. But _still_, he isn’t about to put anything in his mouth—

Unless he is.

“Open that whore mouth,” Hamura grits out, making it clear that Yagami doesn’t have a choice in the matter. Yagami tries to maneuver himself away—pushes his head back against the hand that’s gripping his greasy hair—but he can’t. “This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? Punishment. Put it in your mouth and nurse it in your throat so I don’t have to hear you _talk_.”

Yagami—despite his intuition, despite his anger—opens his lychee toned lips, which are set in a grimace, and experimentally wraps them around the head of his dick which is leaking precum, wood sap sweet. His eyes almost roll back. He’s so warm, so fucking _warm_. It’s oddly comforting, in a way, being led onto the length with a composer’s hand, being fed dick, spearheading through his throat which is convulsing around the intrusion. But he keeps the gag tears and the drool at bay for now, just going down on that cock which smells so good, which radiates heat. Yagami’s hands curl in the suit pants, needy and stabilizing. His head is throbbing, and he feels so taken advantage of; naked, head in the lap of a well-dressed yakuza captain, and exposed for everyone to see.

He tries to keep his teeth away, uses his tongue to lick at what he can, but it’s mostly his throat doing the work. He doesn’t know just _how_ big Hamura is, but just swallowing is doing more to massage that fat dick than the rest of his mouth is. He begins coughing around the intrusion, his chest struggling to take in air. He whimpers.

“Stop pretending you don’t like it,” Hamura snarls, pushing him down further. Yagami sputters, his eyes squeezed shut. But for all his struggling, for all his showy distaste for Hamura—

He reaches across the divider and strokes at his spit slicked balls.

Just to please, to pet.

“Ah—that’s right. Fuckin’ get ‘em. Full of cum for you, aren’t they?” he groans, thrusting up in short, jerking movements of his hips. Yagami whines, indignantly, and earns a laugh from him, “Look at you, such a whore when you’re put on display. I never would’ve guessed it. Maybe I should take you home—_ahh_—press you up against my window and show everyone how I fuck your tight little ass—”

Yagami lets out a noise of distaste and Hamura just grabs the back of his head, pushes him down until he’s fully buried in Yagami’s throat. He can feel it spasming, can feel the hot breaths, the spit, the tongue that just cups his cock now, the bump of those teeth. He comes with a shout, spraying the inside of Yagami’s mouth with his release. Yagami has no choice but to swallow, held there as his hand clutches Hamura’s thigh. The taste is salty, but most of it goes directly into his throat, so he doesn’t taste that acidic, body-warm fluid all too much.

“That’s it. Drink it all up. Don’t let a drop spill—I don’t want to mess up this suit,” he says, low and conversational.

When he’s let up, Yagami gasps immediately, and then erupts into a fit of coughing. He lounges back in his chair with a slump, his face red and his chin covered in drool.

Hamura smirks to himself, and gives his still-softening cock a playful, slow stroke, before he tucks it back into his pants. Yagami stares at him. He’s barely broken a sweat, his face looks as placid and pleased and apathetic as it always does. Yagami can’t tell if he finds it infuriatingly attractive or annoying.

“Why’d you have to do that?” Yagami croaks, his voice worn. He’ll have to tell people he’s just getting sick for the next few days.

“I’m just being a good friend. Did what you asked, didn’t I?”

“Could’ve given me some warning,” Yagami says, wiping away salty tears that collected in his eyes from the lack of air. His eyes are burning, eyelashes clumped together wetly.

“Mmh. Where’s the punishment in that?”

Yagami huffs, picks his clothing back up, and pulls on his still-damp, now-cooling pair of underwear. He dresses in silence, glancing out the car window. If anyone saw him, they don’t seem to give a shit. There have been stranger things coming out of Kamurocho.

Yagami can't help but intuit that this exercise seems like a total failure.

“Feeling less low?”

“Not really—hey…” Yagami’s vision swims back into focus as he realizes they’ve—at some point—did some U-turn beneath an overpass and are now back in Kamurocho. “Where’re we going?”

He watches the groups of wannabe idols walk by, watches a host holding hands with an elderly woman outside of Café Alps, watches red-faced businessmen stumble outside an izakaya he’s never been to. Watches two students with messenger bags grin and talk with animated hand movements, surely satisfied with their own ability, their own success.

Watches the outside of a steaming Sauna Goten come into view. Hamura parks his car in front of it and gives Yagami a smirk. For once, it doesn’t look too cruel.

“If the punishment didn’t work, how ‘bout a reward?”

Yagami rolls his eyes as he zips up his jacket.

“Fine by me. I’ll sweat out the cum you just made me drink.”

For some reason, as they walk into the parlor together, the humidity inside nestling and sleep-inducing, like a descending cloud of mist, Yagami doesn’t think he hates Hamura all that much.

**Author's Note:**

> man have you seen kimura takuya in his mid-twenties??? i couldn't NOT lewd that face
> 
> this was a commission so i hope you enjoyed it my angel >:^)
> 
> [take my carrd](https://bibles.carrd.co/)


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